


A Clash of Vows: Blast From the Past

by EndDragon



Series: A Series of Broken Promises [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blast from the Past (A Prelude Segment) (Jon and Rhaegar) (Post-Greyjoy Rebellion)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 18:17:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13576242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EndDragon/pseuds/EndDragon
Summary: Set shortly after the Greyjoy Rebellion, Rhaegar is in Winterfell and comes upon a small child, Jon Snow.(A Prelude Snippet from 'A Series of Broken Promises' aka 'A Clash of Vows'.For those people asking for a Jon and Rhaegar moment.





	A Clash of Vows: Blast From the Past

**Author's Note:**

> This will be deleted once the Prelude gets 's to this point, as it is apart of that. But people asked for some Jon/Rhae moments, but if I do anything from the main story it will give away to much of the future plot, so how about young Jon and Rhaegar? Will that suffice for now?
> 
> Thank you for all the support for 'A Clash of Vows'! And hopefully, I can keep the good times coming? XD

* * *

**_ A Clash of Vows: Blast from the Past _ **

**_ A Series of Broken  _ _Promises_ **

* * *

In the interval of courses that were brought out for the feast that sought to never end, and a few musicians who took to playing a few common tunes to the joy of the lowborn seated throughout the lower hall, Rhaegar had taken the time to slip away from the ancient keep's Great Hall.

Leaving Ser Meryn to watch his brother and taking Ser Barristan as his protector, he traversed the dimly lit corridors of the castle, Rhaegar inhaled a deep breath of crisp fresh air as his feet crunched over frosted cobbles.

"Say what you will of the North, you'll not find air smelling as sweet as this in the capital," commented Rhaegar, his eyes closed as he exhaled two plumes of steamed breath from his nose.

Barristan chuckled. "When you've half a million people crammed in and tossing buckets of shit and piss out their windows all night and day long, a place tends to smell like a loo after awhile."

"Quite right, Ser Barristan, I should inquire about the capital's sewers when we return," advised Rhaegar, holding up a hand to silence the old Lord Commander's mirth as he heard the sound of grunting, and metal hitting wood.

"Late night sparring?" Suggested Barristan.

"Mayhaps a promising new Kingsguard, Lord Commander. You never miss a day to inform me you lack the number of brothers you should have," said Rhaegar, taking off at a casual stroll towards the sound.

"I've provided a list of names to you of noteworthy men, you've declined them all, at the very least I should hope you adhere to my advice now. We shouldn't drift to far from the keep, your Grace, the rest of your detail is inside and out of ears shout," recommended Barristan, the man's hand sliding along his belt till it clasped the handle of his sheathed blade.

Rhaegar waved the recommendation away as they walked under an archway to a training yard of sorts, the sound of laboured grunts luring him in further to the open space of a courtyard lined with hay practicing dummies, opposite of those sitting littered about were tall pots stocked full of arrow quills, not far off from that was a row of hay bales painted with circular archery targets.

His gaze, however, took more interest in the sight of a boy with long dark brown hair than the yard meant to breed, hard, northern warriors. Looking to be just below Rhaegar's waist, the boy swung a dull sparring sword against one of the hay dummies, weak blows he noted, the sword appearing to weigh more than the thin boy himself.

Approaching the child, Rhaegar saw him grow still as cold hay crunched beneath his booted feet, the boy spinning around to face him, his arms shaking as he struggled to keep his sword up, it was only a matter of seconds before the boy succumbed to its weight and he dropped the dull point of the blade to the ground, his dark hair matted to his forehead with sweat.

"Who taught you to swing a sword, lad?" Asked Rhaegar.

"Ser Rodrik," replied the boy proudly. His eyes widened a second later as he noticed who was addressing him. Dropping the sword the boy fell to his hands and knees. "Please forgive me, my Lord."

"He's the King, boy, its your Grace, not _'my Lord',"_ instructed Barristan.

"Please forgive me, your Grace," corrected the boy hastily.

"He's young, Ser Barristan, the scolding wasn't necessary." Chastised Rhaegar.

"If you're going to do something, might as well do it correctly," defended Barristan.

Walking torward the boys crumpled form, Rhaegar knelt down and laid a hand on the boy's shoulder. "You've committed no crime, so there is nothing to forgive. Tilt your head, let us have a look at you, boy."

Slowly, the boy pushed up off the ground and sat back on his heels, his long face had Rhaegar's breath catching in his throat in surprise, dark steely eyes peering back at him, the same he had seen upon Ned's bastard babe that day on the Trident and Lyanna before that.

"What's your name?" Asked Rhaegar inquisitively.

"Jon," answered the boy quietly.

" _Jon_ ," repeated Rhaegar. "Jon Snow isn't it, Lord Eddard's son?"

"Aye, your Grace... his bastard son." Confirmed Jon solemnly, his words spoken ever so softly it looked to Rhaegar it pained the boy to say them.

"There's worse things to be than a bastard, lift your head up, and hold it so, a name is a name, boy. It'll be the words you speak and the actions you take in life that will be the measure of you, not a name," Comforted Rhaegar, he brought a finger to the boy's chin so he could nudge his head up.

Jon gave a wobbly smile before turning to look away.

"Well, if you care not to speak, let's see your footwork then. Leave that sword of yours, swinging madly isn't a skill," ordered Rhaegar, retaking a standing position over Jon, he turned to a nearby training dummy, pulling out two long sticks tied in with the hay. He tossed one down in front of Jon. "Pick it up."

Cautiously, Jon grabbed the stick, his eyes darting nervously between Rhaegar and Barristan as he clumsily reclaimed his footing.

"This isn't a sparring sword," noted the boy.

He smiled. "Swinging a sword bigger than you are isn't going to teach you the finer things of swordplay, this is about footwork, the moving with the blade, not the swinging of it."

Looking as though he understood, Jon fixed himself into a stance, his right foot leading out.

"What's a boy your age doing out here all alone, why aren't you at the feast?" Asked Rhaegar, taking a stance of his own, again the boy let his head hang.

"Lady Catelyn requested I be absent from the feast," answered Jon slowly, he shuffled forward and took a swipe, the King swatting it away as though it were a fly.

"The Lady of Winterfell doesn't take kindly to you being here I take it," mused Rhaegar, he sighed with a shake of his head when Jon didn't reply. "What of your Lord father, does he treat you well?"

Jon nodded, his feet shifting nervously beneath him, his face a beating amber from the attention on him.

Engaging the boy in a few parries, Rhaegar saw the anger behind the child's strikes, his footing sloppy that left many opportunities open for him to sweep the child. _This Ser Rodrik has his work cut out for him._

"My sister, Daenerys is about your age, mayhaps a shy younger. I care for her as if she were mine own daughter," revealed Rhaegar, blanching to find some common words in which to connect with the boy as they broke from another spat of their clashing sticks. "I met you once before you know, when you were but a babe, as small as a young pup."

" _We did?_ " Asked Jon surprised, panting.

"Aye, on a hill overlooking the Trident, it was a good day, I remember it fondly. It marked the end to a terrible war," Rhaegar supplied, his eyes locked on the boys grey eyes, unable to look away from them. "Tell me, Jon, do you know your mother, has Lord Stark ever told you?"

Jon shook his head. "Nay, your Grace," he answered, a look of eager hopefulness settling on the childish face as he returned with a question. "Did you know her?"

Rhaegar's lips thinned, hating to have given the boy hope and then be the one to have to dash it away. "I regret to say I did not know her. Your Lord father has been tight-lipped regarding her identity, I think it his pride to not name her in fear of breathing life back into her, he must have truly felt an affection for her, who ever she was. He's a noble man your father is, but it is mine opinion that nobleness and pride can blind a man from telling a truth that may bring joy to another but hurt themself."

Jon's face scrunched up in thought, his mind digesting the words Rhaegar spoke.

Looking to Jon's eyes, those grey orbs seemingly lost to deep thought, Rhaegar knew the sight of them would plague him for days to come, the wondering of possibilities to great to ignore, but leaving him too uncertain to act. His child was dead, buried with her mother.

Rattled from the depths of his mind as he heard the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard take a step forward, his chainmail and armour clanking.

"The night grows late, your Grace, we should return to the feast," suggested Barristan calmly.

"Mayhaps you're right, Ser Barristan," agreed Rhaegar, his eyes continuing to look over Jon. "I apologize for having to end our session, _Jon._ You've great promise with the sword, you should continue your practice. I hope we may have the chance to speak again before I depart."

The boy gave a sheepish nod as Rhaegar motioned for Barristan to lead their way back to Winterfell's Great Hall, the young boy watching after them. He could feel the weight of the childs gaze on his back, but he couldn't turn back, he couldn't delude himself into thinking the boy was his, he'd taken one Stark from Winterfell before and it started a war. Was his own selfish delusion worth the bloodshed of millions? No, he had no proof to support the idea, and a naive assumption wouldn't drive him to act.


End file.
